


Silent Night

by MillyVeil



Series: Christmas in Atlantis [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Marshmallows, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 16:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: John takes Rodney to the mainland to get away from the carolers in Atlantis.Pure unapologetic fluff :)





	Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 2006 on LJ

The night was very dark. The campfire spat and crackled in the pit. Glowing ambers floated towards the sky above. Beyond the treetops, stars were everywhere.

Millions upon millions of them.

It was a foreign sky that was beginning to feel startlingly familiar, John mused. He fingered the small piece of wood in his hands absentmindedly, his head tilted back. The Boar. Follow the invisible line across the night sky to the Sun's Servant (looked a little like Cassiopeia). Above it and to the right, the Holy Tree. Teyla had patiently pointed them out to him. Several times.

He ran his hand over the rough piece of wood in his hands again, following the crudely carved lines by touch for a moment before returning eyes and blade to it.

"Peace and quiet," he said. Finally." The knife bit smoothly into the pale wood. He glanced over at Rodney. "Now that you're here, aren't you glad you tagged along?" 

"Oh, yes," Rodney said, his voice muffled behind his hand as he applied another layer of bug repellant. He rubbed the oily liquid onto his face, into his hair, and down his neck. "Deliriously so."

"Come on. It's not that bad."

"I could be working right now, you know," Rodney said. "I could be inventing things, discovering things, doing real work. But no, I'm here, wasting my time with you--"

"Gee, thanks a lot, McKay." 

"--being eaten alive by all kinds of blood-sucking insects. And also, my ass is going numb."

John brushed a wood chip from his knees. "As late as yesterday, you were begging me to schedule a mission to get away from Simpson and her merry carolers." He reached over and rotated the stick with his two marshmallows a quarter turn. The Daedalus had brought a shipment a few weeks ago and he'd managed to get his hands on two bags before they were gone. It had been the bribe with which he'd convinced Rodney to come at all.

"Oh, god, yes. If I hear 'Santa Baby' one more time..." Rodney shook his head with disgust. His shoulder brushed against John’s as he leaned over, squinting at the collection of little figures on the ground between John’s feet. "What are you doing?"

John shrugged. Using the tip of the knife, he gave the unfinished figure in his hands two eyes eyes. A mouth (he gave it a happy tilt). "Just felt like doing something with my hands, that's all."

Rodney picked up one of John's earlier creations. He turned it over in his hand. "Is this a dog?"

"No," John frowned.

"A troll?" 

"It's a nativity scene. At least the beginning of one."

"I escape into the wilderness, but not even here can I get away from the Christmas crazies." Rodney turned the wood figure over in his hands again. "I didn't realize nativity scenes had trolls." 

"It's not a troll," John snapped. He hissed as the tip of the knife slipped. A drop of dark blood slowly appeared where it had scratched his skin of his finger. "It's a camel." He sucked at the side of his finger to soothe the sting.

"Don't quit your day job, Joseph," Rodney snorted.

"I'd like to see you do better," John said sullenly. He snatched the troll-- camel, dammit, camel-- from Rodney's fingers and returned it to its spot next to the lone king.

"Unlike you, I know my limitations. I'd be more likely to take my thumb off than to coax something looking even remotely like—-" Rodney broke off and scrambled over to his stick. "No!"

The burning marshmallow stick drew an arc of bright, orange light in the air as he pulled it from the fire and waved it around.

John snickered around his finger. "That's what you get for dissing my nativity," he said.

Rodney blew frantically at the flames until they went out. "Dammit," he muttered. He poked gloomily at the charred, gooey remains of the marshmallow with the tip of his finger. "I told you I was never any good at this." He gave the marshmallow a last disapproving glare before he discarded it in the darkness behind them. 

"Good thing I'm a pro," John grinned. He stabbed the tip of the knife into the log they were sitting on and reached for his own stick. 

His marshmallows were perfect. Golden and sticky and just perfectly done. He pulled one off, juggling it a little as it burned his fingers, then popped it in his mouth. Chewing, he held out the stick with his remaining marshmallow at Rodney, who made two futile grabs for it as John pulled it just out of reach at the last moment.

"Bastard," Rodney growled under his breath and crossed his arms over his chest, looking away.

"Language, McKay, language," John tsk'ed.

Rodney ignored him, his shoulders set stubbornly.

John frowned. They'd been a team for well over a year now, but Rodney sometimes still seemed uncertain where the line of being part of the fun and being made fun of was. When in doubt, stick to what you know, and apparently what Rodney knew was being on the wrong end of one too many mean jokes. 

"Come on," John said. He held out the stick again. "You want it or not?" He kept it very still until Rodney gave him a baleful glare and snatched it from his hands.

"Bastard," Rodney muttered again.

"Hey. I let you have it, didn't I?"

"You should clean that, you know," Rodney said around the marshmallow. He nodded at John's hand.

"What? This?" John flexed his fingers. "It's just a scratch."

"Uh-huh. Just a scratch." Rodney licked his fingers. “Tetanus. Sepsis. _Gangrene_. You might have to amputate."

John rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Rodney. Try not to be so positive about things. It's not healthy."

"Positivity is over-rated." Rodney snagged his backpack and started rummaging through it. He made a satisfied sound as he found whatever he was looking for.

John let him pull his hand close and felt cool wetness swipe over his skin, dipping between his fingers and over his knuckles.

John smiled. "My very own Florence Nightingale." 

"Shut up." Rodney took one more round with the disinfectant wipe before he stuffed it back into its single pack and tucked it away in a pocket of his backpack. A band-aid wrapped around John's finger a moment later.

John squinted at Rodney's handiwork in the flickering firelight, turned his hand over. "Thanks."

"I wasn't doing it for you."

John raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure it’s my finger.” 

"Not everything is about you, you know," Rodney huffed. 

"Sure. Okay. If you say so." John offered Rodney a marshmallow straight from the bag and went back to working on his nativity scene with a final amused shake of the head. 

They fell silent. The crackling of the fire mingled with the sound of John’s knife carving out his figures. An ox and a truly ugly shepherd later, he heard Rodney shift on the sleeping bag.

He glanced up and saw Rodney settle on his stomach, cheek resting on his hands. "It would be a shame, that's all," Rodney mumbled. 

The words were so quiet, so low John almost thought he'd imagined them.

"What?" he asked, his knife coming to a rest. "What would be a shame?" 

The fire hissed and spat as a log re-settled in the pit. A swarm of embers rose into the darkness. Rodney said nothing, just closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

John picked a tiny pine-like cone from the ground. He threw it at Rodney. It hit just above his ear. "Hello. Ground control to Rodney. What would be a shame?"

Nothing. 

John picked up a handful of cones and took aim again. Shoulder. Ear. The other shoulder.

Rodney finally had enough and pushed up on his elbow, batting the next cone away in the air with impressive precision. "What are you five years old? _Stop_ that!"

Sure," John said agreeably. He tossed another. It got stuck in Rodney's hair. "As soon as you tell me what it is that would be a shame," he said.

Rodney picked the cone from his hair and threw it into the flames. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

John grinned. "Nope."

Rodney sighed.

"Your hands," he finally said. "I just happen to think it would be a shame if they had to go, okay." He put his head down again, facing away from John.

"On behalf on my hands, I thank you for your concern," John smiled and bowed his head deeply.

"Yeah, well, I kinda like them," Rodney mumbled.

John put the knife down very carefully. Rodney's breath stilled when he ran his fingers slowly over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

Soft, warm hair.

"My hands kinda like you, too," John said.

Rodney's lips were sweet and warm and sticky from marshmallows. John found he didn't mind the hard, uneven ground under the sleeping bag. Not at all.

*^*^*^*^*^*

Rodney spent the entire trip back next morning complaining about his back. The troll, the sheep, and the rest of John’s nativity posse spent the trip stuffed deep in his backpack.

*^*^*^*^*^*

~ The End ~


End file.
